Until the End
by Sunsets and Snowflakes
Summary: Even death didn't seem so terrifying with Watson at his side.  Spoilers for AGOS.


It isn't time to die yet, he knows. Not here, in this dingy, damp train carriage, with the scent of blood hanging heavy in the air. When this sorry case is over, and Moriarty is defeated, then he can rest in the overwhelming darkness bearing down on him. But right now, with the train bumping beneath him, and Sim's fingers tangled in his hair, he feels a curious sense of peace. Watson sits before him, stoically sewing his gunshot wound, and although every so often a little hiss escapes his clenched teeth, or a breath is drawn in too sharply, Watson does not complain once.

Holmes has perhaps lost a little too much blood, now, for despite the good doctor's best efforts, the gaping hole in his shoulder continues to leak. It's funny though; it's not so painful anymore, or maybe it is simply that the pain has left him – probably a few minutes previously when he realised he could no longer move his limbs.

Really, he should tell Watson of this somewhat disturbing turn, but the doctor is busy tending to his own injuries, and besides, he doubts he could form a single coherent word on his lips, never mind a full sentence.

He will just observe Watson, he decides – like he used to do sometimes in the evenings back in Baker Street, before Mary, and the wedding, and _Moriarty_. Watson never noticed; Holmes was too good for that. He'd wait until the doctor had busied himself with the newspaper, then he would sit and smoke and just _watch_, and wonder how it was possible for one heart to contain all the wordless, indescribable emotion that welled up inside him when he thought of his friend. He had often pondered whether this was what love was, but he'd never before been sure.

He is sure now though. This is what love is.

He can feel it still, in the space where his chest had been before his body had inexplicably turned to lead. It's incredibly reassuring, and if this is the end; well, at least Watson is here with him. His eyelids are failing him too now, though, and he wills them not to close yet, _not yet_.

Everything is warm, which is curious because in the odd times he's entertained thoughts of dying, he presumed it would be like slipping into a frozen oblivion. He's certainly numb enough right now. Maybe it's Watson's presence, he decides, although it takes him a while because processing thoughts has become a lot like wading through treacle.

Watson has always radiated a comforting warmth. He remembers the time he took too much of the 7% solution; far, _far_ too much, and Watson found him sprawled on the rug in a puddle of his own vomit. He had been barely conscious, aware only of his racing heart and the convulsions that threatened to swallow him up. Then there was a voice calling out his name, and strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him from the floor. He remembers how Watson spoke to him in his calm, reassuring doctor's voice, told him that he was going to be fine, yet betrayed his unspoken fears by clutching Holmes' hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. And he remembers that night, when Watson climbed into the narrow bed with him and held him close as he shivered and sweated, caught in the throes of the inevitable come-down.

There have been countless other times, too, when Watson has found him in varying states of drug-addled consciousness. Too many times, he thinks. It has been the cause of more fights than he cares to remember, yet he cannot think of a single incident in which Watson hasn't helped him. Another would have left Holmes to sink further into his vicious cycle of self-abuse long ago, and really it would be all he deserved. Watson didn't, though. Watson never gave up on him, and even now, as a married man, he's still by the detective's side.

He wants Watson to hold onto him now. Then maybe he won't be so afraid of what comes next. But he can't move, can't speak, and so he observes, because then Watson will be the last thing he'll ever see, and that's a somewhat comforting thought.

And he's tired, _so, so tired_-

Waking is like being reborn from a raging fire. His mind is clear again, clearer than it's been in a long time, and he deduces that Watson has spiked him with the adrenaline. He recognises the effects instantly, because of course Gladstone wasn't the first subject to be tested upon. Watson has again brought him back from the brink, but acknowledging this is a terrifying thought, because then he'll be admitting to himself how close he came to losing his best friend.

So he spits lies about fantastical dreams, and protests in indignation about the pain throbbing in his ribs, but really he treasures the bruise he can feel blossoming over his heart, because it shows Watson still cares, and he's been so _worried_ that he's become a burden.

He apologises, finally, for ruining Watson's honeymoon, although they both know it's for more than that. He doesn't expect the doctor to agree with him, but of course it's only logical that even Watson has a breaking point. It fixes his resolve, however, and he knows his next death must be a permanent one, or Watson will never be free to live his own life.

He feels that he's made his peace with Watson, as they dance in the hall. A stupid idea, really; people will no doubt talk. Not that it will matter to him; not where he's going all too soon.

It is an impulsive move, asking him to _dance_, when their observations could just as easily have been made from the sidelines, but he concedes to himself this one last selfish urge. He wants to be close to Watson, just one last time. One last time to feel that reassuring heat from the doctor as he leans in a fraction too close to mutter into the other man's ear. Then they break apart, and from the look of resignation in Watson's eyes, Holmes can tell that his plan is all too apparent. It's too late though, because there is no other option.

He sits at the chess table, gritting his teeth as Moriarty pats his injured shoulder with a cruel pressure, and watches as his breath rises in a cloud before him.

Then they play.

When screams drift through the air from inside, he feels a little fire blaze in his heart because it means Watson has succeeded in his task.

Now he can focus all his energies on his own success. He taunts Moriarty; tells him about the notebook, and the loss of his business empire. This is only half the battle though. To leave Moriarty like this – enraged, cheated, infinitely more dangerous – is to sign Watson's death warrant himself.

He gets Moriarty to light his pipe, buying himself a little time whilst he cycles through various scenarios, all of which seem to lead to his death alone. Finally, he alights upon one guaranteed to drag down the professor with him.

But now, as he leans back over the edge, he realises how truly _terrified_ he is. This is nothing like his experience on the train, where he was surrounded by friendly faces and Watson was by his side. For a moment, he thinks he can't do it. Then the door opens and it's _him_.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second – just long enough to get one last moment of connection, as he looks into Watson's eyes and sees the _fear_ that the doctor tries his hardest to mask.

It's all the validation he needs, and he pushes himself backwards with the last of his strength, pitches over the low wall and _downdowndown_ and there's a raging fire in his chest, and he thinks this must be what Watson must feel all the time; this is what makes him so courageous when lesser men would turn away.

He's doing the right thing, he tells himself. This is a noble end; sacrificing himself to save the best man he'll ever know. And he falls into the freezing oblivion.

It isn't until he hits the frigid waters that the base instinct for self preservation kicks in, and he claws at his pockets for the life-giving breathing apparatus, stolen on what he at the time believed to be a mere whim, but now acknowledges as something more. He _had _intended for this to finally be the end, but even a mind as ordered, as meticulously controlled as his own, cannot quash the overriding urge to _struggleswimbreatheBREATHE_, and he fights the current until he emerges at the bank, soaking wet and shivering.

It's with grim resignation that he accepts the fact he's still alive, and that he has to get far away from this place before anyone comes looking for him. A part of him wants to remain, so that Watson will find him, but it's only a part of him.

Besides, he's so cold, he won't be surprised if death does find him in the night.

It's a long time before Watson begins to write up his and Holmes' last adventure. He puts it off for a month, then another month; he's in no danger of forgetting any of the details – he's repeated everything over and over in his head day in day out since Holmes disappeared forever from his life. But they're leaving for their long-overdue honeymoon at the end of the week, and Mary thinks he should get it down on paper. Maybe it'll give him some closure, she says.

Closure. He'll never have closure, he knows. He'll never have closure because there were so many things he never said. Should have said.

He thinks that perhaps once upon a time, he wouldn't have had to say _anything_, because Holmes used to know the doctor's mind better than Watson himself.

He wonders what happened to change that, and he thinks he might have been to blame.

He tells their story, but what he writes is not the truth. Or rather; it is the truth, but not the whole truth.

Of Holmes' first death, in the bitterly cold train carriage in France, Watson writes nothing;

_At first I thought he was sleeping; he looked so peaceful, but Holmes is _[was] _never peaceful, not even in sleep, when he thrashes and mutters and starts. Simza said he'd stopped breathing and for one paralysing moment fear took over and it was like being shot. My best efforts couldn't bring him back, and it felt like I was dying too. Then I remembered the adrenaline - brilliant,_ amazing_ Holmes saved his own life – almost as if the bastard had planned it. _

Becomes;

_We journeyed onward to Switzerland by train._

Of Holmes' final death, he writes a little, but only because he has to;

_Too late, too late I stepped out onto the balcony, to see my dearest friend and his deadliest rival locked in a murderous embrace. I could have stopped this - surely he knew I would have helped him - but it was too late, too late, for he had already pushed off, fallingfallingfalling and that look, oh God that last look he gave me. I'll never forget it, not till the day I die. _

Is replaced with;

_An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms._

His final line is the closest to the real truth he'll ever write, and even then, it's a mere shadow of his real feelings:

_I shall ever regard him as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known._

In the end, despite the undeniable deterioration of their relationship in their final year together, Watson is glad that he was there in Holmes' final moments. He hopes Homes was glad too.


End file.
